Harkin’s place wasn’t just spacious. The rooms and passageways looked as if they had been crafted for a family of giants, some twelve feet tall and twice as wide.
The entry opened up to a cascading staircase in the shape of a single wide sweep of a double helix. The walls in the adjoining corridor were spaced a little too far apart to simply call them roomy. Cutter wagered most of Harkin’s guests had to put on glasses to even catch a glimpse of the detail in the ceiling seemingly miles overhead. It was a shot at both the age of those at S&O and the intricate detail. The woodwork wove together with the trim in a strange pattern that resembled rustic technology, interwoven wires, an oddly futuristic Celtic knot.
“Oh, wow. So cool. Look at you.” Harkin was fawning all over Celia. Kinda creepy. Only not kinda. Extremely creepy.
Harkin scrunched down, not quite kneeling, but not quite standing either. “This is so exciting. I’ve never seen anything like this.” He pinched Celia’s cheek. She was as surprised by this move as Cutter was. The difference in their reactions was that Cutter clenched his fists. He didn’t care if this guy was some S&O mucky-muck. He’d lay him out just the same.
“Well, I mean I have,” said Harkin flamboyantly gesticulating. “Of course, I’ve seen surrogate bots before. But not like this, like this, you know?”
“Not a clue, buddy,” said Cutter through gritted teeth.
“Celia, it’s Celia, right, you don’t mind if I call you Celia, do you? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but man! Here in my home! Can you believe it? I mean, I can’t. And yet here you are!”
Celia smiled. “Here I am.”
“Can we can talk?” asked Cutter.
“Oh right. Right. Right away. Follow me.”
Pinkerton wasn’t kidding about Harkin. Harkin wasn’t just a fan of tech. He guided them through the entry into a room the size of a warehouse. Maybe in a previous life, with a previous owner, in an era of poodle skirts and speakeasies, this space had been a ballroom. From the high vaulted ceiling hung a central chandelier hinting at the room’s prior function. But now the room was designed for something else.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Displays were set in relief along the walls. PlexiGlas containers encased several exhibits. Scattered pedestals erupted from the dance floor in some surreal, life-sized, rich guy version of pachinko. On each pedestal, various technological brick-a-brack was spotlighted. Lights were tilted, perfectly illuminating the displays. From what Cutter could tell, the tech dated back generations, etching out a historical timeline and charting a course to the day’s current technological iteration. He had created a museum to the past century of technological advancement in his home.
The left wall was lined with various decommissioned synthetics. They were posed in profile, the first hunched over, becoming more erect as they advanced in sophistication. They reminded Cutter of that poster for evolution, illustrating ape to man and everything in between—only this was an automated tin can to human-look-alike, and then the abandonment of the human design, allowing synths to be created for optimal function, rather than the limiting human approved aesthetic.
Spotlighted on the last pedestal was the gas mask with blacked-out domed eyes and slatted rebreather across the mouthpiece. It was on display with the rest of the technological paraphernalia, a brazen declaration that with enough wealth and power, not only could you get away with anything, but you could do it out in the open, right in front of everyone’s face.
They passed through the museum and exited into Harkin’s living room. Another equally high ceilinged, spacious room. Also equally as impressive, but for a host of different reasons. While the museum was a showcase for tech of the past, the living room was a tech geek’s wet dream of the present (and possibly future, given Harkin’s position and access at S&O).
Harkin entered, overflowing with smug pride, evident in the tight smirk on his face. He wanted them to acknowledge his collection, but Cutter wasn’t in the habit of giving accolades to pompous suits, undo or otherwise.
Harkin buffed his fingernails on his chest. “Wha’cha guys think? You like? Just my personal collection.”
Cutter shrugged. He almost said that he had seen better, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell such a blatant falsehood. Truth was Harkin’s collection rivaled LACMA’s. And wagering from the open slots and empty pedestals, Harkin wasn’t finished with his celebration of tech.
The wide halls opened to an even wider space with a sunken seating area. A fireplace-in-the-round was at its center. Circling it, a white leather sectional was pressed against the edges of the sunken pit, facing an enormous flat screen monitor. To the left, a dining room table had no end. It was set for a couple dozen people, but looked like it hadn’t been touched in ages.
A minibar was on the far left, although there was nothing mini about it. The bar was a polished dark wood, something with a distinct oaky aroma. Highly polished chrome taps jutted up like soldiers standing at attention. Rows of bottles were stacked in front of a mirror that ran the entire length of the wall.
The opulence was to be expected, considering Harkin’s status at S&O, but the room possessed an eerily notable trait, one that set Cutter on edge.
Everything moved.